Chapter 297: Youth Ambition
"Again!" Old Pierre barked, slamming his cane into the dirt.
The birds chirping in the trees briefly fell silent, startled by the old man’s shouting.
Julian groaned, pushing himself up from the muddy ground. He was nineteen years old, with a lean but muscular build, messy brown hair, and hands covered in rough calluses.
He wiped a streak of sweat and dirt from his forehead, gripping his iron sword tightly.
"Grandpa," Julian complained, breathing heavily. "We have been swinging since the sun came up!"
"And if you are fighting a real battle, do you think the enemy will let you take a nap just because your arms are tired?" Old Pierre scolded.
He limped forward, tapping the edge of Julian’s sword with his cane. "Keep your guard up, boy. A knight does not slouch."
Julian immediately straightened his back and raised the iron blade. Just hearing the word "knight" sent a thrill of energy through his tired muscles.
It was a foolish dream for a boy born in a dusty farming village, but it was his dream. He wanted to wear shining silver armor, ride a magnificent warhorse, and one day, become a ruler of his own lands. He wanted to look down from a grand stone castle and know that he had earned every single piece of his glory.
Julian glanced toward the small roof cottage at the edge of the training field. His mother was sitting on the wooden porch, mending a torn fishing net, while his two younger sisters were scrubbing clothes in a wooden tub.
They were a poor family. They owned no land and had no royal blood. Yet, every single silver coin they had managed to scrape together over the last five years had been poured into Julian.
They believed in him. They believed that his ambition, his strength, and his good heart could lift their entire family out of poverty and grant them the honor they so desperately deserved.
Julian lunged forward, swinging the sword in a wide arc.
The sun climbed higher into the bright blue sky, warming the fields of tall wheat that surrounded their home.
Old Pierre stopped, he turned his head toward the north, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the horizon.
"Do you hear that?" Old Pierre whispered.
Julian lowered his sword and listened. It sounded like distant thunder, but the sky was completely clear.
Julian walked past his grandfather, stepping up onto a small wooden fence to get a better view over the tall wheat fields. He squinted into the distance.
A massive cloud of brown dust was rising into the sky, stretching across the entire northern road.
"By the Saints..." Julian breathed out.
Marching toward their peaceful village was an army unlike anything Julian had ever seen in his life. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men.
Many of them rode upon horses, their faces hidden behind iron helmets. But what caught Julian’s attention the most were the weapons they carried.
The men marching on foot were holding massive, strange spears that seemed impossibly long. They had to be at least fifteen feet in length.
"Grandpa... who are they?" Julian asked.
Old Pierre’s face had gone completely pale. He dropped his cane.
"Vikings!" the old man choked out. "The men of the North!"
"But... they are so far inland!" Julian argued, "Why are they marching in formation? Why do they have those massive spears?"
"Run, Julian!" his mother suddenly screamed from the cottage.
Dozens of horsemen broke away from the main column, galloping rapidly into the village square.
They shouted in a harsh language. Villagers screamed, dropping their baskets and tools, running toward the nearby woods.
But the raiders threw heavy nets and thick ropes, capturing the fleeing farmers. Other soldiers immediately began kicking open the doors of the storehouses, hauling out massive sacks of grain, dried meat, and barrels of ale.
"They are taking the food!" Old Pierre shouted, stepping in front of Julian’s mother and sisters.
"Get away from them!" Julian roared.
He gripped his family’s iron sword with both hands and charged forward.
A towering Viking warrior, covered in wolf furs and carrying one of those long pikes, turned toward him.
Julian swung his sword with all the strength he had, aiming for the man’s shoulder.
The Viking simply stepped back, using the massive length of his fifteen-foot pike to his advantage.
He swung the thick wooden shaft of the weapon, swatting Julian’s iron sword away.
Before Julian could recover, the Viking spun the pike around and slammed the blunt end of the wooden shaft directly into Julian’s stomach.
All the air rushed out of Julian’s lungs. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, the precious iron sword falling from his hands into the mud.
The giant Viking stood over him, chuckling in a booming voice. He looked down at Julian’s shiny iron sword, then back at Julian. The warrior spoke a few words in his harsh language, pointing at Julian’s muscular arms and nodding to another soldier.
Before Julian could stand up, two sets of massive hands grabbed him by the shoulders. They dragged him roughly across the dirt, binding his wrists together with a rope.
"Julian!" his mother cried out, but she was quickly hushed as another soldier tied her wrists as well.
Within an hour, the entire village had been subdued. Not a single person had been killed, but everyone was tied together in a long line. The village’s food stores had been completely emptied, loaded onto carts pulled by stolen oxen.
Julian looked over and saw his grandfather sitting next to him, unharmed but looking defeated.
"I’m sorry, Grandpa," Julian whispered, tears stinging his eyes.
"Hush, boy," Old Pierre said gently,"You are alive. We must survive first."
Julian looked up as the scarred Viking warrior who had defeated him walked past. The warrior was talking loudly to a man on a horse, and though Julian didn’t understand their language, he heard two distinct names repeated several times.
Erik. And Ragnar.
"Who is Erik?" Julian whispered to a captured merchant sitting on his other side.
The merchant trembled, "King Erik of Norway. He captured the grand fortress of Calais just a few weeks ago. These are his men. They are raiding the countryside, taking our food and taking prisoners to build their defenses."
"Why?" Julian asked, "Why are they digging in? Why haven’t they left?"
"Because they are waiting..." the merchant whispered, glancing nervously at the soldiers. "They are waiting for reinforcements. They say a man named Ragnar is coming from across the sea. And when he arrives... they say the entire world will belong to him."
Julian lifted his chin, his eyes locking onto the back of the Viking who had struck him down.